


Mistakes were made

by CatLovePower



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Early in Canon, Gen, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, IT WAS AN ACCIDENT, Nightmares, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Stabbing, Whump, but it's Geralt so what did you expect, not featured: a good night sleep, the comfort is like minimal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:02:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28077402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatLovePower/pseuds/CatLovePower
Summary: Geralt, not used to traveling with others, has a nightmare. Jaskier, still somewhat new to traveling with his muse, worries and tries to wake him up… and accidentally gets stabbed.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 10
Kudos: 130





	Mistakes were made

Geralt was asleep by now, Jaskier could hear him breathing, low and regular, from the other side of the small room they were sharing. There was something exhilarating about being allowed to sleep that close to the witcher, and it was actually preventing Jaskier from falling asleep. He still couldn’t believe he was now friends with an actual witcher.

Geralt’s swords were leaning against the wall, next to the door. His armor was on the chair next to the bed. He was dressed in his small clothes now, with only a sheet covering him. He could probably sleepwalk his way out of a fight, though. Not that Jaskier expected any action around these parts, but anything could happen when you traveled with a witcher, and that was the beauty of the whole endeavor.

And so, late at night in the crappy inn of a crappy town, he imagined future adventures and all the songs he would be able to write about them. He lay wide awake on the lumpy mattress, considering the incredible situation he was in. Traveling with your muse… what a poet’s dream! 

Jaskier considered lighting a candle and trying to write down some of that late night inspiration he could feel just begging to be explored, but he didn’t want to wake Geralt. The witcher kept pushing him away, pretending he hated his very presence, and yet here they were, mere feet apart in the quiet night. Geralt kept pushing him away, rather violently, but he couldn’t deny that he liked him – and besides, everybody liked a poet. Sure he was annoyingly chatty, but that was part of his charm, right? 

Those late night doubts were the reason he hadn’t slipped out of the room to have fun downstairs, maybe find some charming company for the night. He didn’t want Geralt to give him the silent treatment the next morning – well, more silent than usual – or, even worse, to leave without him like he threatened to do so often. 

Rain pattered on the roof above, a rhythmic pattern that made Jaskier want to tap his fingers along with nature’s music. He could imagine the roar of a beast nearby, and the clang of steel. Wait, no, silver for monsters, he amended – Geralt wasn’t really talkative on a good day, but he seemed to enjoy sharing little snippets of witchery knowledge from time to time.

Wind started howling and a shutter clanked against the wall, breaking the nice pattern. Jaskier huffed, annoyed. Geralt grunted softly and the bed creaked. Jaskier held his breath, but the witcher snored and didn’t move again. 

But then, Geralt made another noise, halfway between a snort and a sigh. Jaskier turned on his side and tried to peek through the dark room. He could make out shapes, but not enough to satisfy his curiosity. Sheets ruffled and for a second, Jaskier thought Geralt was about to get up. He remembered witchers could see in the dark way better than humans, and he closed his eyes, pretending to be still asleep. 

Silence again. Heavy breathing. More ruffling. 

Jaskier opened an eye and frowned. Was the mighty witcher… dreaming? It sounded bad, whatever it was. Geralt was whining, the noise so incongruous coming from him. Should he wake him? Should he keep pretending to be asleep and just forget about the whole thing, or would it be alright to tease him about it in the morning? 

Geralt choked on a sob, teeth gritted, holding back but clearly distressed. Nightmares about monsters were to be expected in his line of work, but Jaskier didn’t think he would ever witness one directly. It was heartbreaking and a little scary to hear him sound so vulnerable and broken, so close and yet so alone.

That wouldn’t do, Jaskier thought. Friends didn’t let friends suffer through violent nightmares. He pushed back the covers and sat on the edge of the bed, letting the cold floor ground him. Geralt’s shape seemed huge in the darkness, and yet he was shaking his head and squirming, bested by his own imagination. 

So Jaskier crossed the small room until his shins were resting against the bed frame. He stayed like that for a second, hand hovering above Geralt’s shoulder, until he gathered up the nerve to actually touch him. At this point, Jaskier wasn’t scared of him, but maybe he should have been. Geralt was always telling how scared everyone was of him – with an unsaid question evident on his face – why wasn’t he? 

Jaskier shook him lightly, and all hell broke loose. 

He felt the impact before he even felt any pain. The punch stole his breath and he toppled backwards, mouth open like a dying fish. Disbelief and annoyance made him grunt from the floor; he tried to say something unsavory about Geralt, but he couldn’t quite form the words. A patch of wetness made his shirt stick to his belly, and a cold sweat washed over him.

Geralt had stabbed him.

A rational man would have scrambled away, on all fours if need be, out of the room, the inn, the town even, never to come back. Jaskier was a poet though, and those weren’t known for their rationality. 

“What the heck, you maniac!” he complained loudly, pressing a hand against his midriff. He swore in two different languages, just for emphasis. Because ow, that was uncalled for. 

Geralt sat upright, straight as an arrow, breathing hard as if he had just been running. His hand flicked in the dark and his sign lit the candle. The feeble source of light shed long shadows across the room, making Geralt look even paler than in the daylight. 

Jaskier looked down at his shirt and, sure enough, it was crimson; blood was starting to seep between his fingers, coating the waistband of his pants. He tried to get to his feet, but stopped when he looked up and saw Geralt’s face. There was so much guilt there.

In retrospect, it was probably the first time Jaskier had seen Geralt genuinely afraid and contrite – actual human emotions, coming from the bottom of his heart, no matter how he liked repeating that witchers felt no emotions, ever. 

The short dagger he was still gripping fell to the floor with a metallic clink, and Jaskier stared at it, blinking stupidly at the blood on the blade. His blood. 

“Geralt, you…” Jaskier started, but his voice was tight and he didn’t finish his sentence.

The witcher fell to his knees next to him, transfixed by the sight of his bloodied hands. His golden eyes were filled with panic, and the dark circles under his eyes made him look sick. He pushed strands of hair out of his face, looking nervous like he never had before, not even when he was the one injured, half gutted by an endrega.

Not that Jaskier was gutted – at least he didn’t think so. He raised his hand to look at the wound, but Geralt didn’t let him. His hand closed over his, large and callused and so strong, and pressed down hard. Ow.

“It’s not that bad,” Jaskier said lamely. “I’m serious, Valdo’s singing hurts more than this,” he continued with a shaky laugh. But Geralt wasn’t listening anymore.

For someone who got hurt on a regular basis, and who patched himself up on his own most times, Geralt turned out to be pretty shitty at first aid on humans. He was too rough, jerky movements spurred by fright. He pressed too hard – “It’s hardly bleeding anymore, see!” – probably ready to cauterize the wound with Igni, or whatever barbaric procedure worked for witchers. 

“Let me go, dammit,” Jaskier griped. “The blade probably just nicked a rib, nothing life-threatening.” 

Jaskier batted his hands away and Geralt finally relented, clearly reluctant. He sat close enough to make sure the bard wouldn’t bleed out anytime soon, but far enough to appear non threatening. It was actually hilarious and adorable, but Geralt didn’t find it humorous when Jaskier made a remark about it.

“It’s not the first time I’ve been lightly stabbed, you know.” 

Geralt’s eyes widened as he took in the words, and the truth behind them. 

“But you’re a bard,” he said uselessly. 

“I’ll have you know that it’s quite a dangerous profession,” Jaskier said, raising his head proudly, but wincing when the movement pulled at his injury. “I’m fine,” he insisted, for Geralt’s sake, before the other man could try to get in his face again. “Who sleeps with a dagger under their pillow anyway?” 

“It helps,” Geralt grumbled. 

“With the nightmares?” Jaskier said.

He couldn’t help being curious about those, and Geralt owed him an explanation and an apology. Maybe some kind of feast for breakfast tomorrow, or a night of entertainment out of his own pocket. At the very least a new shirt. He sighed because blood was always hard to get out of clothes. 

“Why are you not afraid?” Geralt asked instead.

Jaskier blinked as he looked at him from across the narrow bed, half naked with his hair down, looking deadly but also quite lost. Jaskier understood the question, but he also couldn’t answer it. The fascination he had for the witcher superseded any survival instinct he might have – but some said he had none anyway.

He lifted his shirt a little more, wincing when the drying material pulled at his skin. Above his left kidney was the white crescent of an old scar, fading but still visible.

“This one is from a bar brawl in Novigrad.”

He twisted his hip, exposing his flank and feeling weirdly naked as he laid out his scars for the witcher to see. Geralt drew in a breath and said nothing. He looked as if he wanted to touch them, but never got the nerve to do so. 

“Would you stitch it up?” Jaskier asked. “The new one, I mean. It’s only fair you do it since you’re responsible.” 

Too soon, he realized, as Geralt’s face closed off again, and he got up to rummage in his pack next to his armor. The whole stitching was a quick affair, but it still hurt a lot. By the time he had a neat row of ugly black knots pulling him back together, he was sweating and feeling lightheaded. 

He better not have to walk tomorrow, he thought, while hoping at the same time that Geralt wouldn’t just decide to leave him behind because it was more convenient. Maybe he’d agree to let him ride Roach for a little while. 

“Touch,” Geralt rasped, as if the word stuck in his throat. “You shouldn’t touch me.” 

“To wake you up, you mean? Lesson learned,” Jaskier said, giving him a weak thumbs up but not trying to lift his head. 

Geralt busied himself with bandages, sacrificing an old shirt and tying bands of cloth around the closed wound. Witchers didn’t usually need those, Jaskier realized, considering how fast they healed.

“You could talk.” 

“Talk?” Jaskier croaked, blinking when he realized he had closed his eyes. 

“Or sing. It might keep the nightmares at bay,” Geralt explained. He seemed unsure, at a loss, but also very open for once. 

“What were you dreaming about?” Jaskier asked, because it was now or never. Geralt huffed and washed his hands, then Jaskier’s with the remnants of the shirt. 

“Do you know what a griffin is?” 

“Of course, I’m not dumb…” Jaskier said, pretending to be offended.

“Now picture the same griffin, but taller than a windmill, with talons as sharp as the sharpest blade, and…”

“You’re not that good at metaphors,” Jaskier remarked. 

“Don’t interrupt,” Geralt said with the smallest of smiles. “Now imagine…”

The story didn’t matter, in the end, unlike what it represented, what it ultimately meant. The witcher was trusting him with secrets and weaknesses, and he was trusting him to forgive him. That’s what friends did, Jaskier thought as he fell asleep; their friendship only featured more pain and deadly weapons than most.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to YamiLlama for the whumpy prompt, and to Gale for the efficient beta :)  
> Let me know what you think!


End file.
